Georgia trudged through the stand of trees between the Toyota and the driveway. The snow beneath her boots crunched. Some had melted in the past two days and seeped into the dirt, leaving patches of bare ground that gave off a fresh, earthy scent. Although it was still February cold, the smell reminded her that spring would be coming.
She wanted to snap on her Maglite but couldn’t risk it. She listened to the silence instead. She thought she might have heard a faint whisper. Was it a TV inside the farmhouse? One of the guards? Or just the night breeze?
She edged around the last of the trees but stayed half-hidden among the bare branches. A shabby barn stood about a hundred feet from the house, partially surrounded by trees and brush. This was the structure she’d seen the other night. A window was cut into the side closest to her. She needed to look into that window. A dim spotlight mounted on the side of the barn angled in her direction, but the throw of light was too weak to penetrate the tight weave of the branches where she stood.
Two cars were parked beside the barn. One was Zoya’s red sedan. The other was a dark-colored SUV. The same vehicle from two nights earlier. And now that she had time study it, she realized the van could be the SUV used in the Evanston drive-by. She squinted, trying to pick out the plate—she remembered it started with 633. But the SUV was parked at an odd angle, and she couldn’t make it out. She was about to head over for a closer look when two men on foot emerged from the gloom. The guards. She shrank back into the trees.
They approached from the far side of the barn. One had a flashlight pointed at the ground, but it wasn’t powerful, and she couldn’t make out either man’s features. They talked in low tones. They circled around the front of the barn and disappeared.
She waited. Ten minutes later, they came around again, but this time they closed in on the SUV and climbed inside. The dome light snapped on, and she saw them pass a bottle back and forth. Perversely, that gave her hope. If they spent the night loaded on vodka, maybe they’d fall asleep and she would have a chance.
Half an hour later the men were still in the car. Georgia’s feet and fingers had gone numb, and despite the ski mask, her nose was runny. She had to retreat to the Toyota. She was halfway through the copse of trees when the doors to the SUV slid open again, and the men got out. Their conversation was louder now, and punctuated with broad laughs. They made another circuit of the barn, stumbling occasionally, their boots tramping the underbrush. This time, though, instead of going to the SUV, they headed toward the house. A door slammed.
She waited another ten minutes. The sky began to spit a cold, stinging rain, not cold enough for sleet but strong enough to hamper visibility. Only crazies would be out in this. Good. She needed every edge.
Slowly she crept past the cars to the barn. She was about a foot away from it—and the window—when a second set of lights suddenly flickered on, brighter and more powerful than the first. She froze. Her heart thumped in her chest. Had she been made? She stood absolutely still, a rabbit caught in the glare of light. But there was no alarm. No shouts. No movement. The lights must be connected to a motion sensor. Shit. She should get back to her car. They must have noticed the light.
But she was so close. All she needed was a quick peek through the window. A few seconds. Then she would leave. She closed in. The window was covered with something on the inside: brown paper maybe. Or a canvas drop cloth. She was catching no breaks tonight. Then she looked more closely. One corner of the covering had drooped or the paper had torn, leaving a tiny portion of bare window. The glare from the lights made it difficult to tell. She shaded her eyes and squinted.
And sucked in a breath. Followed by a triumphant exhalation. Although the window was grimy and streaked, she could clearly see the gleam of metal. And several pieces of equipment, including a gurney, different colored tanks for gas and oxygen, an assortment of instruments. In the center of the area was a table. A light fixture hung over it. Thick drapes cordoned off the sides. She was looking at an operating suite. A place where Dr. Lotwin delivered babies, killed their mothers, and then harvested their organs.
She hurriedly fished out her cell and took a few pictures. She’d found what she was looking for. She tapped her phone app. She’d programmed in the number of the Russian mob guy she and Matt had visited. Time to call in the cavalry. She’d told Boris they should give her an hour—it would take them at least that long to get here. If they came at all. Not ideal, but it was the only insurance policy she had.
She tapped on “Boris” and was waiting for a connection when she felt it. The spitting rain was cold, but the barrel of the gun against her neck was colder.